


Painted Masks

by Oneofthepoisoned



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Death!, If you only read one work by me, M/M, Please read notes!, Please reveiw, Short One Shot, Suicide Attempt, Won't take up any of your time, don't hate me, super short, who knows - Freeform, you might like it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-01
Updated: 2016-03-01
Packaged: 2018-05-24 01:26:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6136576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oneofthepoisoned/pseuds/Oneofthepoisoned
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's been painted for too long.  John Watson has had enough, and now - he flies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Painted Masks

**Author's Note:**

> I've been really sad lately and have needed to force myself to start writing again. This story was a way to begin anew. Basically this one-shot is John never falling in love with Mary, and instead finding a different way out of his sorrows.  
> MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH!!!

“It’s a beautiful day, Sherlock.” And it is. 

The weather is simply marvelous, a cool breeze coming from the east, low humidity, but warm sunlight to bask in. There aren’t any clouds in the sky, only a few stray birds. It’s a rare London day.

John thinks that today is a perfect day to die.

“I’ve stood here a thousand times before.” and he has. 

Of all the times he stood up here, the weather hasn’t been so perfect. Today is the only day the sun has shone on his skin and he can finally feel it. He basks in the feeling and smiles.

John has come up at the place where Sherlock fell many times. Too many. And none has been so perfect. 

Perhaps John feel so joyous because he’s finally getting what he wants. He’s come up here many times with many different objects, but none felt so right. 

He’s come with a gun and a bullet – quick, painless. He’s come with a rope – useless, no ceiling. He’s come with pills – too slow. 

But now, no weapon of destruction is needed for his utter demise. 

He supposes that last words should be spoken. 

His last words should speak to _him_. 

“I’ve never – ” he chokes on his words. Straightening his back, he clutches the cane in his hand and speaks again, “I’ve never doubted you. Not for one second. I _knew_ you, Sherlock.” and he did. 

“John.” Sherlock’s voice speaks from behind him, a dangerous warning. John pays no attention. He’s used to Sherlock’s ghost constantly in his presence now. But it isn’t enough, not really. John wants to feel Sherlock. Wants to run his callused hand through the man’s deep, thick black curls. Wants to kiss the beautiful angel’s bowed-lips and shout his sorrows before his reply is a whisper in the wind. 

“I’ve thought about killing myself too many times to count. I always pondered the how, never caring much for the when. Truthfully, the only thing keeping me alive was the surety of my death.

So I’ve decided, then. I’m going to follow in your footsteps. Literally.” John chuckles darkly. The laugh is hollow and broken.

“When you stepped off this roof, a part of me died. No – forget that. It was like you ripped me in half. I – I can’t function without you. You let my nightmares free in one fall. In one second, my worst dream came alive.”

I can’t let you take all the blame, though. If I had only stopped you – only seen – ” John closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose to stop the onslaught of emotion. 

“John,” Sherlock says, “Step back from the ledge.” 

John turns, taking a deep look at Sherlock, knowing that his face will be the last John sees. The man in front of him bears the image of Sherlock but does not _look_ like Sherlock. This man is torn, his clothes disheveled and hair greasy. There is a wild panic in his eyes, and his mouth pleads with Sherlock’s voice, but this is not Sherlock. 

John purses his lips and turns back around, “No, I don’t think I will. After all, you didn’t listen to me, did you?” 

There’s a deep sob from behind him – Sherlock crying. 

“I cried too, you know.” He says.

“I know,” Sherlock takes a deep breath, “I saw.” 

“You’re a figment of my imagination. You aren’t real.” 

Sherlock gasps behind him, breathing through tarred lungs, “I – I admit I made a mistake, but _John_ ,” Sherlock says his name like a prayer. “This is _me_.” 

John scoffs, scooting closer to the edge, “He’s dead. This – this is the only way I can see him again.” 

“Stop!” Sherlock bellows, and John feels a cold hand yank on his shoulder, pulling him a couple steps backwards. 

That’s new, he thinks. 

Sherlock had never been able to touch him before. 

John’s gaze snaps up and stares at Sherlock, “Why are you doing this?” his voice cracks and he hates it. 

“I’m not dead, John.” Sherlock’s eyes are frantic, and his hands run up and down John’s arms, warming him. 

“I loved you, you madman.” 

John’s eyes brim with tears as he speaks the words.

“I know, John. I know.” 

“I should have told you. It’s my fault.” 

“No,” Sherlock shakes his head vehemently. “it’s a magic trick.”

“You’re dead!” John suddenly yells, yanking back from Sherlock’s grip. He’s had enough.

With a swipe of his hand he punches Sherlock in the stomach, and the man dissipates into the air, leaving him with a small poof and wisp of black smoke. 

John cries. 

He sniffles. 

He sobs. 

He yells. 

But finally, the time has come. His sweet release is no further than a few steps forward.

He bows his head, muttering a quiet, “I love you.” 

John shuffles slowly towards the edge. 

He slowly wills Sherlock back into existence, and the fake man is back, grabbing his hand and rubbing circles on his thumb. 

He glances left as the weight enters his hand. Sherlock grips him tightly.

“Till the end, John.” He says.

John stares, “I love you.” 

“You are mine.” Sherlock comes forwards and wraps John in his arms. 

John leans. 

John falls. 

There is a shout.


End file.
